Anthony Pym The Price of Alfonso’s Wisdom. Nationalist Translation Policy in Thirteenth-Century Castile Published in The Medieval Translator / Traduire au Moyen Age 5, Ed. Roger Ellis & René Tixier, Turnhout: Brepols, 1996, 448-467. My prime concern is with the way translation history is used. I am interested in the way historical references can consciously invent a noble lineage for the translator’s profession (as in the FIT project on “Translators Through History”); I am worried by the way introductions to general translation studies can reduce centuries of serious thought to a misled “heated debate” about how translation should be taught at the end of the twentieth century (as in Snell-Hornby 1988, who only mentions history to get it out of the way); and I am intrigued by the way some historical concepts can work wonders for the creation of nationalist translation myths. References to the “School of Toledo” - or even to the more careful notion of “the Toledan translators” (Foz 1991) - fall into the last-mentioned category. In recent years the fame of Toledo has been used in an unsuccessful attempt to attract official subsidies to the city, in a more successful attempt to have translators work in Tarazona, and, as we shall see, in a rather comic attempt to frame the ambitions of at least one Spanish school for the training of translators. It is a strong and eminently useful myth. Having written elsewhere on the church-sponsored translators in twelfth-century Toledo, I now want to look at the translators working after 1250 for Alfonso X of Castile, traditionally known as “el sabio”, “the Wise”. With apologies to philologists, my interest is not so much in the texts as in interpreting their encompassing translation policy, since policies are basically what the myth has been used for. From this perspective, I shall argue that the Alphonsine translators should not be lumped with their twelfth-century predecessors. I hope to show that any combining of church-sponsored and state-sponsored activities under a common label - even that of “the Toledan translators” - obscures the most problematic aspect of the history in question. And I shall propose that this particular patch of history, if conceptualized in terms of tension and negotiation rather than unity, can be used with greater contemporary relevance than is commonly the case. After all, if Alfonso developed one of the first national translation policies in Europe, the wisdom of his patronage could have something to do with the translation policies of today, particularly those of the European Union. 2 A Common Story I take the liberty of translating from the first right-hand page (strangely labelled “page 2”) of a recent Spanish introduction to translation studies, addressed to students at the University of Las Palmas: “Translation began in our country at the beginning of the twelfth century, attaining full development in the thirteenth century. It all started with the conquest of Toledo. The city had become one of the most important western centres for Islamic culture, which was of course superior to European Christian culture. In the twelfth century translations from Arabic were carried out in various Spanish towns, but it was at Toledo that the work was most continuous and fruitful. When Toledo came under the Crown of Castile it was the most cosmopolitan and polyglot city in the world. Christians, Arabs and Jews lived there without problems of any kind. That is why it became the great centre for the transmission of culture to Christian Europe. Many researchers now criticize the term ‘school’, which does not correspond to the concept we now have of a school of translation. But Toledo was nevertheless a centre where a series of scholars met and worked, using the same procedures and focusing on the same field. “The School of Toledo’s first stage began thanks to the efforts of the archbishops. Don Raimundo de la Borgoña was the first to bring together a group of translators, who worked under the guidance of the canon Domingo Gonzalbo. They basically translated from Arabic into Latin, but using Romance, the Hispanic vernacular, as an intermediary language. The intermediary versions were given by Jews, who did so orally, although we sometimes find an intermediary written version in Hebrew. [...] “The second great age of the School of Toledo corresponds to the reign of Alfonso X the Wise. The king, who preferred studies to wars, sponsored translations and introduced the practice of translating into Romance, since at that time it was thought that Latin scholars should not be the only ones to hear and learn from written documents. Alfonso X also widened the linguistic field, promoting translations into Latin and vernaculars other than Spanish. [...]” I omit several inconsequential paragraphs, retaining only the statement that “after the seventeenth century, translation runs parallel to literature”, which might be a fair summary of what we know about the matter. The School of Toledo nevertheless returns at the end of the third page (“page 4”): “We hope our modern translation schools in Spain will produce translators as good as those of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, particularly with respect to the School of Toledo’s international projection and role as a point of contact between cultures.” (Pascua & Peñate 1991: 2-4) The encompassing ideology uses past glory as a basis for present ambitions. The Toledan translators were unquestionably good; their international projection could not be less than great; all we have to do is imitate them (?). Although this account mentions no sources, much of it follows García Yebra (1983: 323-336), perhaps with a dash of Foz (1987) to question the term “school”. The authors of the above story are recycling a series of idées reçues, for which they are not to be blamed. However, since the ideas are circulating publicly, a few of them should be publicly questioned. First, how can we say where and when translation began in any country? The origins of translation are surely to be associated with the first evidence of trade, and trade was certainly carried out in the Spain of the Romans, the Visigoths, and of course the centuries of Islamic domination. As for translation specifically into Latin, there is some evidence of activity in 3 the ninth century (Thompson 1929) and a lot more for eleventh-century work in Catalonia (Millás Vallicrosa 1949). The only way anyone can say translation began at the beginning of the twelfth century is to limit “our country” to Castile, which is an interesting implicature for a book published in the Canary Islands (not the slightest bit Castilian until the late fifteenth century). Second, to say “it all started with the conquest of Toledo” is to overlook the initial twelfth-century work carried out in the north of Spain, in Tarazona, in the region of Logroño, and in Barcelona, where the translators were mostly non-Hispanics or Jews. To bring all this down to Toledo is further to affirm a nationally centered history. Yet greater scholars have done as much. No one really knows where the prolific translator Johannes Hispalensis did most of his work (Seville, “Luna”, on the moon?) so he is often lumped with the Toledo mob, on the strength of one preface and for the sake of neatness (everyone following Jourdain 1819). Similarly, although we know the first Latin translation of the Qur’an was organized between Salamanca and the region of Logroño, the fact that one of the minor translators came from Toledo has been judged sufficient reason to baptize the resulting documents as “the Toledan Collection” (Kritzeck 1964). And again, the collection of properly Toledan documents edited by Hernández (1985) carries a preface in which “Herman de Carintia” is situated in Toledo, even though none of the published documents bears this out. Such assumptions are not as gratuitous as they appear. Third, Toledo’s status as “one of the most important western centres for Islamic culture” is quite difficult to prove. The legend of a massive library being moved from Cordoba was questioned by Haskins many years ago (1924: 6). There is more evidence for cultural and scientific activity being carried out in many parts of Islamic Spain, albeit in decline in the twelfth century (Haskins 1924: 6-7; Lemay 1963: 643). But one should not forget that Averroes was working on Aristotle at Marrakesh virtually parallel to the thirty or so years Girardus Cremonensis spent translating in Spain. Islamic scholarship was not suddenly dead following the conquest of Toledo. Fourth, to describe Toledo as “the most cosmopolitan and polyglot city in the world” is to overlook other great polyglot centres like Constantinople and, more important for our present concerns, the mixture of Greek, Arabic, Italian and Norman cultures at Palermo. Considerable respect should be accorded to Castilian multiculturality. But attention must also be paid to the other centres where knowledge was transferred. Fifth, to split hairs, “Raimundo de Borgoña” is actually the name some Spanish historians use for Alfonso VII’s father (see the article on Alfonso VII in the Espasa-Calpe). To use the same name for the archbishop of Toledo suggests our Las Palmas historians know more about the sexual activities of the French clergy than is commonly admitted. The archbishop is perhaps less ambiguously called Raimundus or “Raymond de la Sauvetât”. Further, the documental evidence of his interest in translations is limited to just one preface to just one 4 translation (d’Alverny 1964). Indeed, he seems to have been rather more interested in money and power than in any cultural virtue (González Palencia 1937). And if one still wants to insist that Raimundus “brought together a team of translators”, one should not overlook the fact that he was directly preceded by Peter the Venerable, who organized the team that rendered the Qur’an into Latin in 1142.